Iron Wolf
by Master-Magician
Summary: A few minutes, by Theon's guess. That was how long it took the Night King to decimate Bran's defenders. All that remained were Theon and two of the ironborn. One of whom it appeared was sporting a broken arm hanging limp at his side.
1. Chapter 1

**As much as I hate to admit it, I'm fairly sure I know how Theon is going to fare during the battle for Winterfell. I really liked his character so I decided I had to write something for Game of Thrones for the first time since I started watching it years ago. I hope he survives, but I doubt it, along with many of the named characters. **

**Enjoy**.

* * *

Even from within the Godswood, Theon could hear the sounds of battle outside Winterfell's walls. The howls of the dead meeting the yells of the living, the notes of horns blown. Theon could only imagine the slaughter taking place outside.

If all went according to plan, Theon and his men would never even see battle. The Night King on his dragon would appear, only to be intercepted and incinerated by Daenerys' remaining dragons. Surely a white walker, not even the Night King, could withstand dragonfire. Nevermind the fact that it's never been tried.

It was an optimistic line of thinking, one that Theon had long since abandoned.

Still, Theon took a little comfort in the knowledge that he, his men, and Bran wouldn't just get blasted from the sky by the Night King's dragon. Bran assured them he would want to kill Bran personally, up close. The Three-Eyed Raven was not someone the Night King would leave the death of to chance.

With one hand resting on the pommel of his dragonglass sword, Theon's other remained fixed on the backrest of Bran's wheelchair. The ironborn were spread out amongst the Godswood in a loose formation, but Theon himself had taken a position beside Bran.

"You are afraid." Bran's monotone voice caught Theon's attention.

"Yes." Theon didn't bother denying, not that he could. Whatever it was that Bran had become, it made hiding things from him physically impossible. Not to mention, Theon doubted there was a living soul in a hundred miles not scared out of their mind right now.

"You've been afraid before." Bran continued, so what end Theon didn't know.

"I… have." Memories flooded Theon's mind, ones that once upon a time would have left him a trembling and sobbing wreck. Images of blood, knives, echoing laughter that still haunted his every step. But not now, not today. He had a duty to perform, he had someone precious to protect.

"What is dead may never die." Bran, for the first time since their arrival, looked up from whatever he was seeing that everyone else couldn't, and stared Theon right in the eye. "But rises again harder and stronger."

The common saying of the Iron Islands coming from Bran's lips was more than a little unnerving to Theon, but he heard of stranger things coming from him.

"That's… what do you mean?" Theon also knew he wasn't the first person to ask Bran this exact question.

"You were defeated." Bran looked away, seemingly at nothing. "You were beaten, battered, broken. All that was Theon was destroyed, reduced to a husk bearing a new name."

"Reek." Theon took in a deep breath. He hadn't spoken that word in… a very long time.

"You never died." Bran pressed on, stoic voice betraying zero emotion. "You rose again, harder and stronger."

"I don't know about that." It took a little bit, but Theon eventually figured out Bran's backwards compliment. "I'm not… better."

"Are you?" Again, Bran turned to look Theon square in the face. "Tell me, would the old Theon be here?"

"What do you…"

"Would the old Theon be here?" Bran pressed, a single hand coming up to indicate his surroundings. "Would the previous you be here, of your own free-will, poised to defend me from the Nights King?"

"I…" Theon hesitated, thinking back to before. Back when he followed and fought beside Robb, back when the Stark family was more whole, less broken.

"You've grown, Theon. Even if you do not see it yourself."

Before Theon could utter a response, a deafening screech rose above the clash of battle outside Winterfell. No one in the Godswood, save perhaps Bran, had heard that sound before. Somehow, everyone knew what it meant.

"To arms!" Theon ordered, weapon already drawn.

The sound was matched with the roar of Daenerys' dragons nearby. Between the canopy of the heart wood tree and the darkness of night, it was impossible to see what was happening in the skies above.

All within the Godswood gripped their weapons tightly. There was not much to be done, save wait and hope for the best.

Theon knew the moment he heard the rustle of branches overhead, followed by the loud thump of something heavy hitting the dirt, that his suspicious had been correct.

Jon had described the Night King in intricate detail to Theon before he took up his post, but even then, it was impossible to mistake him for anyone else. The pale blue skin, apparently a trait shared by all white walkers, piercing eyes of the brightest blue, a cluster of spikes jutting from the top of his bald skull in the vague shape of a crown.

Death had come.

The Night King looked completely unafraid, surrounded on all sides by dozens of ironborn. All of whom wielding dragonglass weapons. Either the Night King was immune to such tools, or he was simply that confident.

None of that mattered, though. What did, was that he was here and his hollow and empty gaze was currently transfixed on Bran.

A monster, yes, that was the first word that came to Theon's mind upon seeing this creature. But this was far from the first monster Theon had experienced in his time. Like the maniac that was his uncle Euron and the demon that was Ramsey Bolton.

These were, from first glance, merely men in power. Cruel, without mercy, greedy, but they were still men of flesh and blood. On the outside yes, but these were not truly men, they were monsters masquerading as men, with hearts blacker than the cloaks worn by the Night's Watch.

But this… this was nothing more than another monster. A monster who didn't bother concealing his true nature with a mask of humanity. No, this monster knew his nature, and cared not for who saw it.

The Night King was terrifying, Theon was not foolish enough to think otherwise, but he was not the first monster Theon had faced.

In the face of Theon's memories, the Night King wasn't so scary anymore.

The ironborn let out a warcry and charged the creature that had appeared in their midst. They numbered a few dozen, the Night King was but one. If all else failed, they would bury him beneath their sheer numbers, the same tactic his army of wights was attempting to their comrades outside the walls.

Theon knew such an easy victory was wishful thinking.

The Night King's movements were every bit as unnatural as his appearance. He twisted, ducked, and weaved among the ironborn's weapons. His own enchanted ice blade carving through their armor like it was threadbare cloth. One man, two men, three, one after another with near impossible swiftness, the Night King slaughtered the warriors that dared bar his way.

Theon had been lucky, when he joined in the fray and was knocked back, he'd taken a blow from the haft of the Nights King's weapon. Thanks to his armor, which had been nearly sundered on impact, all he'd suffered were a few cracked ribs at worst. He was still more than capable of fighting.

There was much pain, but pain Theon could take, pain was nothing in the face of the annihilation of his home and family.

Home and family.

What was Theon's home and family?

Was it Yara, the sister that had returned to her home to reclaim it? The same one he'd been so grateful that returned to the Iron Islands so that she wouldn't die here.

Theon hadn't told anyone, not even Sansa during their private talk over dinner, that he didn't think anyone would survive this battle. He had returned to Winterfell fully expecting to die here alongside the Starks. One conversation with Jon and his advisors, hearing their plan, Theon had the tiniest sliver of hope returned to his cracked spirit.

Was Theon's home in Yara and the Iron Islands? Neither of which he'd ever known until he'd become a man.

Perhaps home and family were here, Winterfell and the Starks. Jon, the oldest brother looking out for every single one of his siblings and worrying the most for their safety. Arya, the mischievous little sister who had planned gods know what for the battle. Sansa, the even-tempered woman whom had nearly crushed him to death in an embrace upon their reunion. Bran, the crippled youngest brother most in need of looking after.

Theon still didn't know who or what his real home and family were, but none of that mattered right now. Right now, Winterfell was his childhood home and it was under siege. Bran was his little brother and a murderous monster was out for his blood.

When hearth and family came under attack, there was only one appropriate response.

Much to Theon's chagrin, Bran had remained anchored in place beneath the tree. He watched his defenders be massacred by his executioner with that same look of detached indifference he always wore nowadays.

Either Bran had absolute faith in Theon protecting him, knew something Theon didn't, or he really just didn't care that he was staring literal death right in the face. Whatever his reasons for staying, Theon would be damned if he let the Night King get anywhere near him.

A few minutes, by Theon's guess. That was how long it took the Night King to decimate Bran's defenders. All that remained were Theon and two of the ironborn. One of whom it appeared was sporting a broken arm hanging limp at his side.

Jarron and Morsh, the latter of which had the broken arm. They were all that remained to hold the Night King back.

Theon shared a look with his fellows. No words spoken. They were not needed, all three knew what was going to happen next.

"What is dead… may never die." Morsh spoke through a jaw clenched from the pain, but his resolve was unshaken, dragonglass axe gripped tightly in his functional hand.

"But rises again harder and stronger." Jarron finished, his own courage unbroken.

For the briefest of moments, Theon imagined it was not the ironborn beside him, but Robb and Ned Stark. The Stark patriarch had always been fiercely protective of his children, even his ward, Theon. Robb, as the eldest brother, most took after their father out of everyone. Someone threatening Bran would not have been tolerated by either.

Had Robb and Ned been here, between the three of them, Theon had no doubt they'd have killed this bastard seconds after he showed up. But they were not here. Robb and Ned were long dead and never coming back.

Judging by Jon's late appearance, he must be frantically trying to reach them. If all else failed, Theon needed to at least delay the Night King until Jon could arrive. He was five times the fighter Theon was. If he was here, Theon had no doubt the Nights King would be vanquished.

If the Night King felt anything, he didn't show it. He simply hefted his spear into a fighting stance, his countenance devoid of all emotion. No determination, no excitement for being so close to victory, no joy. There was just… nothingness.

For the first time in what felt like countless lifetimes, Theon prayed. Not to the Drowned God, not to the Seven, but to both. Of the eight of them, hopefully one would listen. Even if they didn't, it mattered not.

No matter what it took, the Night King wasn't going to have Bran.

"What is dead may never die. But rises again harder and stronger." Theon spoke, conviction growing stronger with each word. "Winter has come."

Theon took one last steadying breath, ready to do what he must.

"Winter always passes!" Theon roared at the top of his lungs, broke into a sprint straight toward the Night King. Jarron and Morsh didn't hesitate, following Theon, going for the Night King's left and right flanks.

Theon's lunge was swatted high with incredible force, a heavy boot striking Theon in the gut and knocking him flat on his back. Morsh's axe swung for the Night King's neck, but with inhuman reflexes, his hand shot out, caught the man's arm, and snapped it like a dry twig. All of this while his other hand, still holding his own weapon, severed Jarron's head clear from his shoulders in a single swing.

By the time Theon was back to his feet, the Night King had snatched Morsh by the throat and broke his neck with a jerk, his lifeless body falling to the bloody snow.

In a matter of seconds, Theon was left all alone against the embodiment of cold and death itself.

Anyone, baring Bran, watching would have expected Theon to be trembling in utter terror, his hands shaking, barely able to hold his sword. It would have been the appropriate response to such a situation.

And yet, Theon was still, almost deathly so. There was fear, plenty of that, but it was tempered with courage, his will steadfast. Theon had made a vow to protect Bran, and he intended to keep it with every last beat of his heart.

Raising his sword, Theon realized the Night King's last blow had destroyed his weapon. Without pausing, he scooped up another sword and an axe from a fallen ironborn.

New weapons at the ready, Theon waited. He needed to buy just a little more time. Jon was close, he had to be. If the Night King wanted to continue their battle, he was going to come to him.

The Night King must have figured this out after half a minute, because that was how long it took for him to advance on Theon, his boots crunching the crimson snow and stepping over the corpses of slain ironborn.

This time it was Theon who knocked the lunge aside with his axe, the tip of his sword aiming for what appeared to be a gap in the creature's armor. But the Night's King was fast, the haft of his weapon both batted the blade away and almost struck Theon in the head. It would have, had Theon not ducked beneath it and dove under the Night King's arm to aim an axe swing for his back. Once again showcasing his incredible agility, the Night King dodged the weapon by stepping out of its reach.

Man and white walker continued their dance. Theon gave it all he had, he didn't know if white walkers could tire, but nevertheless he pressed his assault, never relenting. The Night King matched him blow for blow, Theon evading certain death by the skin of his teeth far too many times.

The axe was destroyed like Theon's original sword before long. He fought with just the sword until that broke, too. Theon just snatched another weapon up from the snow. There were plenty to choose from.

Grabbing another axe, Theon hurled the weapon at the Night King, whom whacked it aside. But in doing so, he fell for the feint.

With one last burst of his dwindling stamina, Theon attempted to ram his sword through the Night King's throat. To Theon's horror, he sidestepped the attack and caught Theon by the wrist.

Theon only thought he knew what the cold was, but the touch of the Night King was far different. It was something far beyond simple cold. It was the very chill of death itself given physical form. Theon had always wondered what pure evil felt like, and this was close to it.

Theon could not stifle his cry of agony when the Nights King broke his wrist. But rather than abandon all hope and scream, he used that pain to fuel his anger. With his other hand, he seized the Night King by the front of his armor and headbutted him. An action Theon regretted, seeing as how it was like smacking his head against a chunk of icy stone. Not only that, the Night King didn't even flinch while Theon's head bounced off.

Theon was far from done, especially seeing as how his useless wrist was still trapped in the Night King's grip. The headbutt had to effect, so Theon brought his fist up to slug him in the jaw. Like his head, it was akin to punching a stone pillar. When that failed, Theon brought a foot up to kick him in the groin. Again, no reaction whatsoever.

Desperation mounting, Theon's hand went to the Night King's throat in an attempt to strangle the life out of the horror.

The touch of the Night King on Theon's wrist was one thing, actually touching his body was something else entirely. The flesh of the Night King, if it even was flesh seeing as how it felt more like rock, was so cold that it burned Theon's hand not unlike frostbite. He could even see black splotched forming on his skin where he touched him. The strangulation was having no effect, but Theon squeezed anyway.

Having grown tired of Theon's futile attempts, the Night King ran him through.

Theon felt surprisingly little when the enchanted ice pierced his body. The unnatural cold of the weapon sapped the warmth from his very blood in what felt like an instant. No matter how much Theon willed his body, it would not respond.

With Theon no longer able to fight back, the Nights King shoved the wounded man to the ground.

"N… no!" Theon screeched, frantically trying to force himself back up. "Hey! Walker bastard! Over here!"

No matter how much Theon yelled or called, the Night King ignored him in favor of his true target.

Bran.

So focused was the Night King on his goal, he failed to notice the shape dashing toward him until it careened into him, knocking him off his feet and sending himself and his attacker tumbling through the snow. The Night King might have had supernatural strength, but he could still be caught off guard.

Theon's limbs felt heavy, impossibly so. His only solace was the fact the Night King's weapon seemed to have frozen its wounds over upon removal. He wasn't bleeding, but that didn't make the injury any less severe. It took everything he had to pull himself up enough to see what was happening.

Theon was greeted with the sight of the Night King being forced back by a furiously screaming, and deeply enraged, Jon Snow. Unlike his fight with Theon, the Nights King was barely able to get any attacks of his own in, so furious was Jon's assault.

Utilizing every scrap of his willpower, Theon attempted to crawl across the bloody snow to where Bran sat in his wheelchair. While the Night King was distracted, Theon needed to get Bran out of the Godswood and to relative safety.

Jon could handle the Night King. The hero had arrived to slay the monster, like in all the stories told to children. Far as Theon was concerned, this battle was already won, so sure he was in the man's skill and drive.

Theon barely made it a couple feet before his body at last gave out. No amount of willpower could truly stave off death forever.

The last thing Theon saw as the darkness consumed him was the Night King, his weapon shattered, with Longclaw swinging for his open neck.

* * *

**This was surprisingly easy to write. Certainly easier than most of my other works here lately. **

**Is Theon dead, or merely knocked out? I did have an idea for a follow-up if I get enough people interested in this one. We will have to see. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I meant to have this done days ago, long before episode 4 aired, but it's like everything conspired against me to stop me from finishing. Anyway, better late than never. **

**Enjoy. **

* * *

Theon was… thoroughly confused.

"Hello?" Theon called out, but no answer came.

It didn't help Theon's mind was still fuzzy. He was in the main courtyard of Winterfell, just in front of the castle's gate, but something about it was off. Winterfell didn't look how he remembered it, not to mention the complete lack of snow that should have been covering the ground.

If Theon didn't know better, he would think this was Winterfell before it was razed then rebuilt by the Boltons.

Theon couldn't remember what happened to lead him here. He was doing… something, something vitally important, but he could not remember what that was. Was he supposed to find something? Someone? Was this a dream?

"Take a breath and relax. It helps."

Theon whirled around to face the speaker, but when he did, Theon instantly backed up a step.

"You… you're not real." Theon's breathing quickened at the man before him. "You can't be real. You're dead! I… I know you are!"

"Am I? Hmm…" Robb Stark scratched the stubble adorning his chin, seeming to muse on the idea. "Well, you're not wrong. I suppose that makes a few things obvious."

"Robb… I…" Theon chocked back tears, thousands of things rattling around within his skull. A thousand greetings, a thousand different ways to beg for forgiveness Theon knew he didn't deserve. Theon couldn't even find his voice to say a single one.

Theon's swirling tempest of thoughts ground to a halt when he felt Robb's strong arms wrap around him in a tight embrace, one that Theon almost felt was crushing the life out of him.

"Gods, how I've missed you, Theon." Robb, grinning in a way Theon hadn't seen in years, pulled away a little, his hands remaining affixed to Theon's shoulders to hold the other man close.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" Theon's memories slowly came back to him.

The Godswood, watching the ironborn die one by one before the Night King, fighting with every ounce of strength and willpower he could muster before finally falling before the unnatural horror himself.

Theon should feel more upset about being dead, but not only did he remember the fight, he also remembered Jon coming to Bran's rescue. Theon was not worried about Bran's safety anymore, Jon would do what Theon could not.

"Theon…" Robb's voice was soft, gentle, certainly better than Theon had any right to be hearing right now.

"I'm alright with it." Theon nodded, looking anywhere but at Robb. "I did a lot of bad things, made so many mistakes. Only right I die for them, finally."

"Theon…"

"At least I made my death useful in the end…"

"Theon!" Robb was shaking Theon's shoulders now. "You're not dead."

"I… what?"

"You. Are. Not. Dead." Robb said slowly, as if making sure Theon could understand and hear him. "Near to it, but not quite."

"But… how…"

"Because I wanted a word, idiot." It was an insult from Robb's lips, but his tone was spoken with such warmth and affection, the likes of which Theon hadn't heard in quite some time.

Theon was at an utter loss for words. Robb, however, was not.

"Theon." Robb's grip on Theon's shoulders tightened, but not uncomfortably so. Robb's grin, already so big, had morphed into a full-on smile, one that Theon hadn't seen since their days in Winterfell. Before that ill-fated visit from King Robert and the royal family. "From the bottom of my heart and beyond, thank you."

"How could you possibly thank me?" Theon nearly shouted, attempting to push Robb's hands off with his own, but the eldest Stark child's grip was stronger than even the Night King's had been. "Everything I did, everyone I killed, I betrayed you. Betrayed your family! Nearly killed Bran and Rickon!"

"Our." Robb corrected.

"Our?"

"Our family."

"Robb… I'm not…"

"Don't start with that." Robb shook Theon again. "Say what you will, do what you will, deny until the sun goes out and the world ends, but at the end of it all, you are a Stark. You don't have our blood, but that doesn't matter."

"Robb…"

"And I thank you." Robb pressed on regardless of Theon's complaints. "For being there when I could not. You protected Bran, our home, our entire family. And I also thank you for abandoning me during my campaign against the Lannisters."

"How is that…"

"Theon." Robb cut Theon off once more with a sharp look and word. "What do you think would have happened if you had been there during the wedding? If you had been sitting beside my Talisa and our mother?"

"I would have fought." Theon said automatically, without hesitation. "I'd have stood by your side and protected you. I would have…"

"Died." Robb said solemnly. "You indeed would have fought beside me, but for the last time. I'm grateful for your betrayal. Even if you hadn't, we were doomed. I made too many mistakes of my own as King in the North. But because of your betrayal, you were not there, you survived. It took some time, but you came back, came back to us. And I know you feel remorse for what you've done, as you should. But your penance has been paid in full. Theon…"

Robb brought a hand to the back of Theon's head to pull him in close so that their foreheads were touching. Then, Robb uttered the three words Theon never thought he'd hear, never thought he deserved to hear.

"I forgive you."

Theon released a deep breath he hadn't realized he was holding the whole time. It was like a thousand-pound weight was lifted from Theon's shoulders, a weight he'd tried so hard to cling to as his own self-punishment.

"And I'm not the only one." Robb's smile returned as he turned Theon to face the nearby upper platform where three other people stood.

Theon almost couldn't believe his eyes. Ned stark himself stood in the center, with his wife Catelyn beside him, and young Rickon on his other side. All three wore matching smiles, bright and warm, Rickon even giving a small wave.

"Theon." Ned's voice carried down from the upper level, but Theon heard it like he was standing right next to the former Stark patriarch. "It is not our mistakes that make us who we are, but what we do about those mistakes."

With those final words, the other three Starks vanished into smoke, leaving Theon once more alone with Robb.

"As much as I wish we could talk more, I'm afraid it's time." Robb looked mournful, but happy at the same time.

"Time?" Theon asked. "Time for what?"

"As much as I've missed you…" Robb put a hand around Theon's shoulders, ushering him toward Winterfell's front gate. "It simply isn't your time yet."

"But… I…"

"No buts." Theon ruffled the other man's hair with a soft laugh. "You need to go back home to our family, Theon Stark."

Theon wasn't able to get out another word before Robb abruptly shoved him hard in the chest. When his back should have slammed against the gate, Theon instead felt nothing and proceeded to fall backward into a pit he hadn't seen was there.

As Theon tumbled into the darkness, he heard Robb's parting words.

"We're all waiting for you, Theon. But don't be in a rush to see us. The rest of the family still needs you."

* * *

Theon's eyes cracked open slightly, only to slam shut when met with stingingly bright light. He tried to raise his hand to shield himself from the offending rays but he found his arms unable to be lifted.

It took some time, but eventually Theon's blurry vision cleared enough to take in his new surroundings. He lay in a bed, his back to the headboard with some furry weight pinning his leg down. It might have been Jon's direwolf, Ghost, but it was impossible to tell.

It took considerable effort to do so, but Theon was able to at least wiggle the fingers of one hand, the wrappings around the digits weren't helping. His other hand was in some kind of brace, preventing any form of movement. The hand and a little of his head, that was all Theon's numb body allowed him to move.

"Awake at last, I see." Theon almost didn't hear the voice, it was so quiet.

"Bran?" Theon tilted his head to see Bran and his ever-present wheelchair sitting at his bedside. "Why are you…"

Bran brought a finger to his lips, an odd gesture considering his complete lack of facial expression to match it, before pointing down at Theon's bed. Following the direction, Theon looked down and finally saw what the weight on his leg was.

In his post sleep haze, Theon hadn't noticed it was Sansa, fast asleep, using his limb as a makeshift pillow. Only now, he'd regained enough vision to see some of her face. Either she did it before drifting off, or someone had done it after the fact, but her hair was pulled back so that it was out of her face, leaving her features visible.

Now that he could see it, Theon almost wished he hadn't. She was pale, unhealthily so, deep black bags under her eyes. Come to think of it, her sleeping position had to be horribly uncomfortable. How on earth had she managed to fall asleep in such a way?

"She waited for you to wake." Bran seemed to read Theon's mind. "Day after day, she barely ate, didn't sleep. She wished for you to see a friendly face when you woke. Her spirit held firm, but her body could not. Jon demanded we allow her the rest."

"Jon?" Theon lowered his voice, not wishing to awaken the sleeping woman. "Is he…"

"Jon is well, for the most part. The battle…" Bran looked away, toward the window that was hurting Theon's eyes moments ago. "Went poorly, but the dead were defeated. The Long Night has been averted."

"We won." Theon whispered the words, almost not believing them himself, as he relaxed back into the pillows, not that he went far to begin with, he still could barely feel his own body. Better that than the pain, he mused. "We won… wait… Arya…

"Safe as well." Bran answered. "Now if you will excuse me."

"What do you…" Theon stopped short when he saw Bran's eyes had turned white.

Knowing Bran was now well out of earshot, Theon abandoned trying to talk to him. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to organize is thoughts. There was still Cersi to deal with, but for now, they could rest and lick their wounds. All of the Stark children had survived the ordeal, too.

"I don't know if you can hear me or not, Robb." Theon whispered to the ceiling. "But we did it, we all made it."

"Theon?" Jon, much to Theon's displeasure, barged into the room louder than the bedridden man would have liked. One look at Sansa, though, was enough to make him quiet himself down. "How are you feeling?"

"Not feeling much." Theon said, Jon moving to stand beside him. Only now did Theon notice Jon's arm in a sling.

"Parting gift from the Night King." Jon explained before Theon could ask. "Got lucky he didn't break it. Would have been worse if I hadn't of had help."

"What would you ever do without me?" Arya spoke up from beside Jon, startling nearly every except Bran. Jon practically jumped a foot into the air. Theon would have, but he literally couldn't.

"Arya!" Jon hissed, but there was no bite in his words. If anything, he sounded almost playful. "Stop doing that."

"Not my fault you have bad hearing." Arya shrugged, not trying to hide her smirk.

"Jon, Arya, restrain Sansa." Bran suddenly spoke up.

"Huh?" Jon turned to the younger Stark in confusion.

"Sansa is waking. Restrain her quickly before she can move."

"Uh… alright." Jon used his free arm to gently take hold of Sansa's. She had begun to stir just before he did so. Arya, not questioning the request in the slightest, took Sansa's other.

Sansa's awakening was every bit as slow as Theon's had been. She eased herself up, blinking away the remnants of sleep while trying to figure out where she was. All the whole never noticing her arms were being held by her brother and sister.

When Sansa's eyes found Theon, specifically his own open orbs, hers snapped into perfect clarity.

"Theon!" Sansa lunged for Theon, no doubt in an attempt to embrace him, but was stopped short by Jon and Arya. The former whom was caught so off guard by her sudden movement that he nearly fell over on top of her with a yelp.

"What are you…" Sansa started to demand but was cut off by Bran.

"Theon's injuries were severe, Sansa." Bran's voice betrayed no emotion. "You do not wish to injure him further."

Sansa caught on quickly, almost looking ashamed of herself for forgetting. Once they knew she wasn't going to do something stupid, Arya and Jon released her.

"How severe?" Theon once more attempted to sit up further, if nothing else to show Sansa he felt somewhat fine. In the end, he couldn't even do that.

"Broken wrist, several broken ribs, more cracked, severe frostbite or something similar, multiple bruises and scrapes." Bran rattled off like one would expect a maester to. "The worst being the stab wound on your side. It missed your vital organs, but the magic of the Night King's weapon was strong. More than once they were sure you had passed, yet you clung to life."

Sansa scooted closer to Theon, her concern filled eyes running all over his form. Her fingertips ever so softly touching a spot on Theon's forehead that he couldn't see. No doubt a result of his poorly planned headbutt to the Night King. Those same fingers found Theon's good hand, their pads running over the bandages covering his hands. It wasn't skin to skin contact, but the intimate gesture to Theon might as well have been.

"You're alive." Sansa stated the obvious, but it was like she was having issues comprehending it herself. As gently as she possibly could, Sansa reached out to wrap her arms around Theon. "You're alive."

"Strange isn't it?" Jon was smiling, a sight Theon couldn't remember the last time he saw it.

"What is?" Arya asked, the younger female Stark took a seat at the foot of Theon's bed, barely missing sitting on his leg in the process.

"We're all here." Jon motioned to indicate everyone present. "All surviving Starks, right here, in one room. No immediate danger that can't wait a little bit. When was the last time we were all together?"

"Been a while." Arya agreed. "Too long."

All surviving Starks, that was what Jon said. Except, Theon wasn't a Stark. Even if Robb had claimed him to be such when they spoke briefly. Greyjoy, Stark, northerner, ironborn, what was Theon?

"You are a Stark, Theon." Bran once more read Theon's thoughts, at least Theon was starting to assume that was what he did with the strange Three-Eyed Raven persona. "Whether you believe it or not, you are."

"Of course, you are." Sansa put a hand on either side of Theon's face and brought her forehead to touch his, not unlike Robb had done. "That isn't in doubt."

"They're right. You're one of us, I don't care if anyone disagrees." Jon kneeled down to be a little closer to Theon. His behavior a far cry from how their brief reunion on Dragonstone had went. Jon had been ready to kill him on the spot back then, Theon saving Sansa the only reason he hadn't, but right now Jon was an inch from hugging the man himself.

"We Starks have to stick together." Arya patted Theon's knee through the heavy blanket to Theon's surprise. He actually felt the touch, if barely. Some of his feeling must be returning, albeit slowly. "All of us. Too many people wanting to put a knife in our backs."

Theon was stunned into silence. Even after everything he'd done, some of it to the people in this room, to their whole family, they were all not just willing to forgive, but accepting him into the family itself.

"Speaking on knives." Arya jumped off the bed and produced a dagger from seemingly nowhere. She moved around Jon and Sansa to take Theon's barely functional hand and put the handle of the dagger into his grip. When he couldn't properly grip it, she wrapped his fingers around it for him.

"Arya." Sansa sighed, not one of anger or worry, but more annoyance.

"What?" Arya shrugged, face an expression of confusion while she pointed a thumb over her shoulder at Bran. "Last time one of us was bedridden, somebody tried to kill him. We are not doing that again."

"About that…" Jon laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head.

Before anyone could say another word, Ghost came bounding into the room like he owned it. Which on second glance, proved correct. This was Ned's old quarters, which as the eldest Stark and current Warden in the North, made it Jon's room. Unless Sansa had commandeered it while Jon was away. Either way, it belonged to one of them.

Ghost, true to him namesake, made not a noise as he padded over to Theon's bed, pausing only long enough for Jon to pat his head for a moment. He gave Theon a cursory sniff before curling up onto the nearby carpet and going to sleep.

At least, it looked like he was sleeping.

"Really, Jon?" Sansa arched an eyebrow.

"I give the man a knife, and he gives him a direwolf. How am I the problem one here." Arya was grinning like a loon.

"I'll have to tell Brienne she won't need to post Podrick, here after all." Sansa mumbled, but everyone heard her anyway. She realized too late that they had. "Now, wait…"

"That's rich!" Arya fell back onto Theon's bed laughing, at the same time landing on his legs this time. "You can't complain about my protective measures, Sansa."

"Careful, Arya!" Sansa snapped when Theon winced.

"It's fine." Theon defended the younger Stark sister. "I'm getting feeling back, that's all."

"That's good to hea…"

"You're still giving a weapon to someone who should be resting!" Sansa spoke over Jon.

"Oh, great." Jon sighed, no doubt remembering the epic battles of the Stark sisters' childhoods.

"It's the perfect time for one!" Arya retaliated.

Theon and Jon watched the exchange of barbs with some amusement. It wasn't often that Sansa could drop her Lady of the North mask, and it was the same for whatever mask it was Arya wore these days. One could be forgiven for thinking, in this moment, that the events of the last several years hadn't happened, and they were having an ordinary day.

After the aforementioned last several years, the levity was most welcome.

"Okay, that's enough you two. You shouldn't be…" Jon, in a poorly planned move, tried to intervene on the argument.

"And you!' Sansa poked Jon in the chest.

"Yeah." Arya joined in, but from her borderline goofy smile, she was more in it to tease her favorite brother. "And you."

Poor Jon found himself on the business end of a Stark family debate helmed by Sansa. Theon almost pitied the man, but Jon walked into that inferno of his own free will.

Bran watched the whole thing, but Theon could have sworn he saw the telltale signs of a smirk. Not much of one, but one nonetheless. Maybe he wasn't as stoic and emotionless as he and everyone else thought.

Theon would have rushed to Jon's defense, like he'd have done for Robb, but Theon was feeling extremely tired, his eyelids growing heavy. It was taking considerable effort to remain awake, but he held on anyway.

This, this moment right here, Theon would not miss. He'd already missed far too much already.

For the first time in… so, so long, Theon's lips raised in a true smile.

* * *

**The Long Night was gut-wrenching, I think all can agree on that. I fully expected Theon's fate right up until it happened, but that didn't make it any less tear-jerking. At least here, Theon gets to live. **


End file.
